


If you only run for cover, it's a waste of time

by VictoriaPyrrhi



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaPyrrhi/pseuds/VictoriaPyrrhi
Summary: It’s her own carelessness that gets her here, hands shredded and useless, but Maka still chafes at being injured and reliant on someone else. She's always found it easy to care for others, but it's so much hard er to let herself be taken care of in return. And Soul, well. Soul just wants to help. Amidst both their own fears and insecurities, Maka learns to trust Soul with more than just her life.





	If you only run for cover, it's a waste of time

**Author's Note:**

> Another year, another Resbang in the books, and I am so, so thankful for everyone's help and encouragement getting this sucker done.
> 
> Thank you to my artist Verix, whose amazing work can be found on [Tumblr](http://illosti.tumblr.com/post/168899885441/hello-this-is-my-artwork-for-victoriapyrrhi-for), including an amazing playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/12137654749/playlist/2sSXKpF63sUqDDI2Y9qfGq). 
> 
> Thanks to Marsh, Madi, Bones, and everyone who looked at this thing and gave me phenomenal feedback.

It’s an idiotic mistake, a moment of inattention, of overconfidence. The sand witch had soul-protect on, and she and Soul were smug and secure in their victory over the pre-kishin. She’s watching her partner slurp down the tainted soul, focused on his smirk, the wide stretch of his mouth, and she doesn’t sense the witch at all until it’s almost too late.

 

She catches movement out of the corner of her eye, twisting to face the threat and nearly blinded by a sudden maelstrom of grit and dust. She can’t see two feet in front of her, can sense Soul behind her. It’ll only take a moment for him to transform, but it’s not going to be fast enough.

 

Maka hears the attack coming - a whistling hiss - and makes a blind grab. The tip of the whip slices through her palm, and she bites back a scream. There’s another crack, and she flings her uninjured hand up, but it’s not enough.

 

“Maka!”

 

She doesn’t remember a lot after that, Soul transforming, the shaft of his scythe slippery and hard to grip, the bite of his blade sinking into the witch, her knees collapsing under her - 

 

***

 

She wants to cry when Stein gives her the news. Two weeks,  _ two weeks _ with her hands wrapped tightly in bandages, changing the dressings daily. Kim had done what she could, knitting crucial tendons and blood vessels back together, but it was persnickety, delicate work even for a healing witch. When her face started to grey with exhaustion, Stein took over, butterflied together the ragged edges of Maka’s skin rather than exhaust Kim further. 

 

“It’s better this way,” he’d said, taping up the bandages. “More natural.”

 

She wants to spit, “Since when have you ever cared about  _ natural _ ,” but she bites her tongue against the words and the pain. He gives Soul instructions for cleaning and re-bandaging her hands, on cleaning out the grit still buried in her palms that will hopefully work its way out of her body, stresses the importance of rest so that Kim’s healing will take properly. Maka’s not really listening. She swears she can feel the thrum of her heartbeat in her hands, and she tries to count the beats, to match her breathing.

 

Stein says that there might be scarring, but she doesn’t really care. Her hands were in  _ ribbons _ only hours ago, and she’s got more than her fair share of scars already. All she can think about are the next two weeks, about how  _ helpless,  _ useless,  she’ll be. She’s quiet when Soul carefully stuffs her into his jacket for the ride back home.

 

They hadn’t even killed the witch.

 

Soul helps her onto the back of his bike before climbing on himself. She’s stiff and unwieldy, and Soul stifles a sigh at her stubbornness and shoots her a glare over his shoulder. She won’t speak, won’t even meet his eyes with her normal defiant stare. He does sigh this time, and reaches back to grasp her wrists gently.

 

“You’ll fall off, stupid,” he mutters, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her chest thumps lightly against his back, and he can feel her glare through his jacket. He’s too happy that she’s at least reacting to something, instead of this sullen funk she’s been in since Stein had wrapped her hands up. He flicks the ignition on, presses in the clutch and rolls the throttle, engine roaring into life. He kicks up the stand and  _ goes _ , satisfied with the feel of her arms tightening around his ribs.

 

She tries to get off the bike by herself, and can’t shut her mouth fast enough around her cry of pain. He’s there before she can even blink, hands around her waist.

 

“Stupid,” he says again, and her glare intensifies. He meets it with one of his own, and she wants to be mad, but she’d have to actually be stupid to miss the worry he’s trying to hide. She’s seen that look too much in recent months to mistake it for anything else. Maka wants to resent him for it, but she can’t really. Not when he’s dodged in front of swords and claws and pain for her time after time after time. 

 

She settles for replying with a truly scathing, “I am  _ not _ stupid, moron.”

 

He keeps one burning palm at the base of her spine as they make their way up the stairs to their apartment. “Could have fooled me.”

 

Her hands might not be able to hold a book for a while, but her elbows remain undamaged. Soul winces, clutching his stomach while she finishes tottering up the stairs and waits by the door, foot tapping and careful to conceal how winded it makes her.

 

***

 

The first hurdle is immediate and involves her clothes. Maka wants things to be as normal as possible. She doesn’t want to be waited on, to be made to feel like the invalid she knows, logically, that she is right now. 

 

Her hands weren’t the only casualty of the sand witch’s attack. Her shirt is in tatters underneath his jacket, and her skirt’s in only slightly better shape. The skirt might be salvageable, but the shirt’s a lost cause. She’s pretty sure her arms are covered in microabrasions to match the ones decorating her legs, but it’s all pretty inconsequential compared to her hands.

 

Still, she won’t be upset to crawl into sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

 

Soul plops the bag of medical supplies onto the kitchen counter and Maka makes a beeline for her bedroom. She kicks the door shut before he can get any ideas about following her. The jacket is pretty easy to get out of - it’s large enough on her that she shimmies her shoulders and it practically falls off her arms. 

 

Maka eyeballs the buttons on her shirt, which seem much smaller and more fiddly than she remembers them being when she put the damn thing on this morning, and decides that the skirt is going to be the easier of the two options right now. 

 

Easier is pretty relative, though. She ends up using one of her partially open dresser drawers and closing it on a corner of the skirt. She uses the leverage to twist the fabric around so that she can reach the button and the zipper. She’s weirdly winded afterwards, but the skirt is successfully puddled on the floor next to Soul’s jacket. Maka stares at the floor for a moment, caught in the tableau, before she starts trying to fiddle with her shirt buttons.

 

Ten full minutes and she  _ gives up _ . She doesn’t have the dexterity, could barely manage the bottom two buttons. She goes for the door and wants to cry.

 

“ _ Goddammit _ .” There’s no way she can grip it tight enough to open it. She slams her boot into the door and bites her lip.

 

“Maka? Can I come in?” Soul’s voice floats through her frustrated haze. “I’m coming in,” he adds a second later.

 

The doorknob turns insultingly easy, and Soul pokes his head through the door to find his Meister standing in her shirt, boots, and underwear, looking like she’s about to burst into tears or bite his head off.

 

“I can’t get my shirt off,” she mutters, forcing herself to meet his eyes and holding up her arms towards him.

 

“Of course, no problem,” he says, stepping forward. His fingers are deft against the buttons, and she shivers because it’s drafty, not at the way his fingertips graze her wrists. He keeps his eyes trained on the hollow of her throat as he moves on to her collar. His complexion is a little darker than hers, but she doesn’t think she imagines the faint dusting of red across the bridge of his nose.

 

Soul carefully nudges the shirt from her tense shoulders, and she watches it hit the floor with the rest of her clothes. He darts a glance at her face before dropping to his knees in front of her and starting in on her boot buckles. He taps her knee when he’s done and braces each shoe in turn as she tugs her feet free. 

 

“Sweats?” It’s half question, half statement, and Maka just nods. He grabs them out of the third drawer, then on impulse snags one of the soft, nearly threadbare shirts nestled in there. He’s back on his knees with the pants, and Maka wonders if an entire body can blush at once. 

 

She steps into the pants, and Soul rises, pulling them up her legs and settling the waistband exactly where she prefers it on her hips. He holds up the shirt, and she wonders if he realizes that it used to be his. She lets him gently tug it over the crown of her head. He goes to help her put her arms through, but Maka clears her throat awkwardly. Soul freezes.

 

“Could you - I can’t.” She swallows. “Bra,” she mutters, wondering if it’s possible for the heat coming off of her face to burn through fabric. 

 

“Sure,” he says, and his voice is steady, cool - but she can feel the slight tremble of his fingers, the way his soul ripples against hers as he reaches around her. 

 

It’s basically a hug, except he’s  _ taking off her bra _ , and in all the scenarios Maka may or may not have envisioned over the years, none involved anything like this. She lets her head thunk down on Soul’s shoulder as she feels her bra loosen and slip off her shoulders. He huffs out a breath against her neck that might or might not be a laugh.

 

***

 

Soul leaves her on the couch, ensconced in her comfortable clothes and propped up with pillows, the remote, and a stern command to call him if she needs anything. He even tried to reinforce the directive, but judging from the deliberately bored look on her face and the way she won’t meet his eyes, he’s probably going to have to keep an ear out for her doing something incredibly stupid.  _ Again _ . He doesn’t want to seem like he’s hovering, even though he’s self aware enough to know that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

 

“Stein says you can have more pain pills around 6:00,” he says, hesitating at the edge of the couch. Maka just nods.

 

He hopes that if he retreats into his room, if he can give her the space she’s so obviously craving, that it’ll help her adjust to the fact that she’s going to need him. Soul’s not going to hold his breath about it, though.

 

Maka waits until he’s in his room and she hears the particular shuffle that she associates with him putting on his headphones to turn on the TV. At the very least, she can mash the controller buttons without too much issue. Daytime soaps don’t hold much appeal, but she wants to lose herself in some kind of noise, anything to keep from thinking about her hands.

 

She makes it about an hour before she feels the tell-tale twinge of her bladder. “Fuck,” she whispers. She jams the volume down a little bit, but doesn’t hear anything from Soul’s room. 

 

It’s just standing, for fuck’s sake, but it’s harder than it has any right to be. She refuses to be beaten by such a simple act - she tenses her core and tries to ignore the throbbing in her hands.

 

She manages, mostly through judicious use of her elbows and a truly graceless roll off the couch. Her knees thump on the floor, and she’s still for a moment, waiting to see if, by some miracle, Soul had actually heard that through his headphones. But he doesn’t appear in his doorway scowling at her, and she doesn’t hear him moving around. Standing from the floor is a little easier, even if it does mean that her ass is in the air and she’s having to really work her quads. She makes a note to do more lunges when she’s cleared for duty again.

 

The bathroom door is in sight, taunting her from across the living room, and her last hurdle is creeping past Soul’s open door to get to it. With his headphones on, she’s lucky if he hears the apartment crashing down around them normally and for once, she’s banking on that fact. She’s about to elbow the door open when she hears Soul clears his throat. 

 

Wildly, she hopes she’s hearing things, but no, his arm stretches between her and the door frame, tan and intrusive. He gives her a disappointed look that makes her ashamed for a brief moment, until she remembers that she was trying to use the bathroom, and now he’s blocking her way.

 

She steels her gaze, chin jerking up. “Move, Soul.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _ Move _ .” It’s an order, Meister to Weapon, but this isn’t the war no matter how much it feels like a battlefield, and he doesn’t move his arm, doesn’t flinch at her icy stare. 

 

Her face is on fire, her bladder insistent. She’s furious and mortified in equal measure, and this is something she’s not sure she can bear. They glare at each other until finally, slowly, he moves his arm and pushes the door the rest of the way open for her. Only, he doesn’t move, just leans there in the doorway and stares at her, arms crossed.  “Go _ away _ , Soul.”

 

“No.”

 

“I have to pee,” she’s trying not to yell, though her bladder is insisting on it, and he’s being so infuriatingly passive that she just wants to scream and slap him.

 

“How?” he asks, and for a moment she just gapes at him. “Your hands,” he continues, as if talking to a very small, very stupid child, “are completely useless.” She tries not to, but she must have flinched, because his eyes soften slightly and he sighs. “Look, I just...you need help. It’s not that big of a deal.” 

 

It’s a lie, it’s a  _ very big deal _ , but she can’t really fault him for it. Logically, Maka knows she’d do the same thing if their positions were reversed. She’d do anything to help him. But the thought of  _ needing _ that help, of being unable to subsist without it in return makes the bile rise in her throat.

 

He’s not leaving. And he’s not wrong. She can barely grip anything. It’s easily the most awkward thing either of them have had to do. His hands are hot and a little sweaty as he tugs down her pajama pants and underwear, and he’s staring anywhere but at her. Her face is doing a fair impersonation of a beet during the whole ordeal, but she soldiers through. She never really thought about not being able to effectively use her thumbs before, or how much she relied on her fingers. He hands her a couple of squares, still studiously staring at the ceiling, because she doesn’t care how much her hands hurt, she will  _ die _ before she lets him help with anything else.

 

He tries to ignore her tiny yelps and the fact that they’re even in this situation and that he might have caught a glimpse of something that he really shouldn’t have seen in just about the least sexy context that he can think of and Soul is afraid that his brain might actually implode from the sheer strangeness of everything that’s going on. 

 

Her soft, “Ok,” is all he needs, and he helps her up and pulls up her panties and pants, leads her to the sink and starts to clean and change her dressings.

 

The skin is still red and angry and raw. Looking at it makes him feel sick in a way that his own scars never have. It’s easy to think that it should have been his hands, that it should always be  _ him _ that takes the damage, but it’s an impossible dream, he knows, and to even suggest it to Maka would result in a ridiculous argument that he’d probably lose. He remembers all too well the months of self-inflicted psychological angst she wallowed in after his run in with Chrona. Infuriating, wonderful girl.

 

She’s more docile after the Bathroom Incident. He doesn’t know if it’s because his Meister has finally conceded to his care, or if she’s just too tired and worn out to fight. There’s a part of him that hopes it’s the former, but he’s never known Maka to genuinely admit defeat before, and when he examines the thought, he can’t fathom the idea that  _ this _ of all things would be what does her in. The concept is unthinkable.

 

He leads his partner back to the couch, sets her down. She’s stuck somewhere in her own giant nerd brain, lost between sullen and embarrassed, and completely unwilling to acknowledge either particular emotion. Soul doesn’t trust her acquiescence, but he’s going to roll with it.

 

“Stay this time?” he asks. She gives him a half-hearted glare, but pulls her legs up onto the couch, curls into herself. He’ll take it as agreement, moving into the kitchen. It was his turn to make dinner tonight, which was just as well, because knowing Maka, she’d try and cook anyway and he’d have to tie her to a chair or something. Aside from her hands, he knows that she’s exhausted, and he’s not doing much better. The last two days have been one blow after another, physically and mentally, and he’s on his last leg. As such, he slings a pot onto the stove carelessly, turns on the burner and pulls out a box of mac and cheese. He stares at the pan for a minute before he says, “ _ Fuck _ ,” and yanks the pot back, pushes the faucet on and fills the stupid thing, muttering the whole time.

 

From her couchy prison, Maka listens to Soul rummage through their kitchen, the muted sounds of his cursing soothing in its familiarity. Her hands ache fiercely, and she feels like her face was still on fire from the Incident. She doesn’t want to think about it, she never wants to think about it again, wants to completely erase the fact that it had happened, but at the same time she can’t  _ not _ think about it, either. Mortifying doesn’t even begin to cover it. Maka can’t begin to contemplate the fact that she has two more weeks of being an effective invalid. She wonders if she can manage to just...not eat or drink anything for two weeks. Or do anything. But then Soul’s there, with a plate of mac n’ cheese and some haphazardly steamed broccoli.

 

It takes her a moment to register the fact that he’s only got one huge plate and one fork, and her initial reaction is to yell at him, because really, what the  _ fuck _ \--why does he get dinner and she doesn’t, and she’s got her mouth open to bitch when he scoops up a forkful of steaming macaroni and shoves it into her mouth. 

 

It’s not the first time he’s had to feed her, and if the state of her hands is any indication, it’s not going to be the last time. It’s just as humiliating as it was when she was bed-bound in Shibusen, temporarily paralyzed and so young. So stupid. Their encounter with Arachne had been a valuable lesson, but she’d hated every moment of laying there, unable to do anything except stew in her own inadequacies. It’s not any less humiliating now.

 

Soul had tended to her then, too. Feeding her and reading to her until her fingers finally started to twitch and the spell wore itself out. It’s not, she thinks, that she’s not grateful. She can’t imagine having another partner. She just resents that she’s the weak link in their partnership. Again.  

 

By the time she’s ready to go to bed, they’re both emotionally and physically exhausted, despite the fact that it feels like they’ve done very little. Maka’s not sure if this deep, encompassing lethargy is the cost of Kim’s magic, or just the stress of her injury catching up to her. The dark circles under Soul’s eyes are particularly prominent, and she tries not to feel guilty.

 

***

 

The exhaustion follows them into the next day, and the day after. She manages three whole days of complete denial of her physical state. Three whole days of Soul’s constant vigilance, of watching Maka continue to try and do things for herself, things that she  _ must  _ know that she can’t do with her hands carefully cushioned and wrapped. He’d be impressed if he weren’t so fucking tired.

 

Neither sleeps well. Maka can’t toss and turn like she normally does - every movement seems to wake her up, hands throbbing. She spends the night shifting from her back to her side and feels like a beached whale in the process. Wakes up, repeats the motion - stuck using elbows and flinging herself around until she’s nestled in on her stomach. Every night falls into that pattern - wake, fling and wiggle around, try to ignore the pain in her hands, try to sleep, wake up again.

 

Soul camps on the couch, every creak and pop forcing his eyes open to stare at her door - cracked, not closed. He’s exhausted and frustrated, and all he wants to do is have a full night’s sleep where he doesn’t feel the need to keep one eye open lest she attempt to do something that’s going to make her injury worse. 

 

In the mornings he helps her use the bathroom, and they don’t talk about it. He unwraps her hands, washing them carefully and redressing them once they’re clean. Over the next few days, the grit and dirt still trapped in the cuts begins to work its way to the surface.

 

He helps Maka leverage herself onto the countertop, turns her hand palm up, and patiently tweezes out anything large enough for him to get to - first the right hand, then the left. She watches the top of his head from her perch and tries to stay as still as possible. It’s almost impossible not to flinch away as he digs into her hands, but his hand cradles her palm and keeps her steady, even as he plucks at her flesh. 

 

If she didn’t know him better, it would be easy to think him unaffected, but she can read his body language as well as she can read his soul, and she knows that he bites back an apology every time she hisses in pain. He keeps it tucked under his tongue instead because he doesn’t want her to feel guilty, because it’s his obligation as her partner. 

 

The guilt sinks into her heart anyway, and with it, the knowledge that she doesn’t deserve Soul, that while she’s injured, he’s stuck here and she’s holding him back. She’s maybe been holding him back for  _ years _ . How many more times will she be the weak link? How many more times will her actions result in their injury?

 

He catches her trying to get plates down from the cabinets on Wednesday in complete defiance of every ounce of common sense he once thought she possessed, and when he reaches around her and grabs her by the wrists, all he can think about is how small her bones feel under his hands and how gritty his eyes feel.

 

She slumps, plates forgotten, and he can feel the sheer  _ defeat _ in every line of her body where it’s pressed against his.

 

“Maka,” he says, and his hands are so warm against the thin skin of her wrists, and his touch is so gentle. Even his voice is soft, understanding, when she  _ knows _ how tired he is, how frustrated he has to be with her, with looking after her, and suddenly, it’s too much. She stiffens against him and he’s already loosening his grip when she yanks her hands back, folding them across her chest.

 

He steps back from her before she can shove him away, and all it does is piss her off more. She can’t take this, can’t take his careful concern, his featherlight touch, his hovering. She doesn’t  _ want  _ it. He retreats across the kitchen, and she hates how well he can read her, even though she’s the one who’s supposed to be able to read soul wavelengths. 

 

“Don’t,” she says, sharp. 

 

“You can’t -” Soul doesn’t really know what he was about to say, but it doesn’t matter in the end. Her eyes flash, a twisted mockery of the look she gets before she launches herself into battle. 

 

“I  _ fucking  _ know! I know I ‘can’t’! I can’t feed myself, I can’t go to the bathroom by myself, I can’t leave the fucking apartment without my every step needing to be monitored!” She feels unhinged, untethered from everything around her that isn’t blind rage, and if she could grip anything with enough force, she thinks she would have hurled it at the wall by now. “I can barely turn the fucking page of a  _ book _ .” 

 

She turns her back on Soul. She can’t look at him right now. She’s ashamed and furious; tension builds behind her eyes and she swears to god if she starts crying after all of this, she’s going to lose it. Her empty coffee mug from this morning sits on the edge of the kitchen sink where Soul had set it earlier, and her eyes fix on it. Her fists clench, unbidden, and she bites back a scream.

 

It doesn’t take much. She doesn’t even have to use her hands, just viciously swipes her arm across the counter. Her mug shatters against the tile of the kitchen floor, and Soul’s full-body wince is a physical presence against her soul before he closes himself off. It’s like twisting a valve, and she aches at the void he leaves.

 

She remembers the last time he had so completely shut down, the nightmares and the uncertainty and  _ Medusa _ . She’d laugh at the parallel to their current situation except for how she kind of wants to throw up because this time it’s her fault. She wants to apologize, to bridge the gap she’s creating, but this...this is what she deserves. The words stick in her throat. They both stare at the pieces of mug scattered across the floor. 

 

She really should apologize.

 

“I’ll clean that up,” she says instead, knowing that there is zero chance in hell that he’d let her get anywhere near the shards. Soul stares at her, one eyebrow raised. She tilts her head up, challenging, and on another night maybe it goes differently. Maybe he laughs softly and she can laugh with him and maybe it would have been an accident and not her throwing a fucking tantrum like a five year old. But it’s not.

 

The silence that stretches between them is huge, insurmountable. Soul is the first one to move, and across the kitchen, Maka shuts her eyes, chin still defiant. They’ve been partners for more than half their lives, and he still doesn’t understand most of what goes on in her big neurotic brain. He avoids the remnants of Maka’s favorite mug and counts it as a win that she doesn’t try to dash across ceramic shards in her bare feet. 

 

“Arms,” he says when he’s close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. She opens her eyes, and Soul could stare into her furious green gaze forever - except he also wants to shake her for being so goddamn stubborn. He’s so fucking worried, and it’s all he can do to just...be there and try to keep her from physically hurting herself any further. He can’t speed up the healing of her hands, but he can do everything in his power to make sure that she doesn’t set back the process with her impatience. “Arms,” he says again, and he bites down on the  _ please _ .

 

“What, no piggyback?” Her voice is almost as sharp as the shards he’s going to have to clean up later. 

 

“Nope. I’d rather not be strangled, thanks. Arms.” Grudgingly, she wraps her arms over his shoulders. It’s a middle school dance move up until his hands carefully skate down to her hips and he murmurs, “Jump.” Maka obeys before she can think about it, and his hands slip to the backs of her thighs, large and hot and still so, so gentle. 

 

Her elbows dig into the meat of his shoulders as she shifts her weight, and she tries not to shiver when the pads of his fingers dig reflexively into her skin. She finally settles, slumping against his shoulder, arms limp against his back. For a moment, her face is tucked against his neck, and Soul’s breath stutters in his chest. She turns her head away almost immediately, planting her pointy little chin into his trapezius instead, and he’s not disappointed because that would be stupid. 

 

Soul carefully picks his way back across the kitchen, intimately aware of the weight of Maka wrapped around him, ankles locked in the small of his back, his neck still burning from the heat of her breath.

 

“Couch?” he asks. There’s no real danger to her feet once they clear the kitchen, but Soul doesn’t put her down, and she doesn’t ask.

 

“Yes,” she mutters. She’s lax, compliant in his arms, but it’s not hard to pick out the thread of petulant frustration in her voice. He stops by the couch and unbidden, she unwinds her legs from around his waist and slides down, toes searching for solid ground. His hands rest on her hips, guiding but not controlling, and Maka hates herself a little more.

 

She settles herself back in her little couch nest, chest aching with the force of her self-loathing. Soul’s still got his soul on lock-down, and she doesn’t blame him. She’s been bitchy and difficult, and  _ fuck _ she broke one of her favorite mugs because she can’t get her shit together. And still, even like this, even when he’s shut himself down, he’s so fucking considerate, so gentle with his hands, with her. 

 

He shifts in front of her, opens his mouth once, twice, before snapping it shut again. “Blanket?” 

 

She knows it’s not what he wanted to say, but she nods. “...Please.” He tugs it up around her, making sure that the ends are tucked securely around her feet, and that there’s enough left to cover her arms if she gets colder. “Thanks,” she murmurs.

 

Maka knows that lashing out isn’t going to magically make her hands better, or retroactively kill the witch that did this to her, or fix the boiling frustration in her heart, but she can’t seem to stop herself. Under different circumstances, she’d go to Shibusen and hole herself up in the gym until she worked out her aggravation on a punching bag, until the buzzing self-doubt finally quieted and she could walk away with a clear head.

 

Instead, it’s eating away at her heart, at her control, and Soul is taking the brunt of it because he’s there, because he’s her partner and hasn’t had the common sense to leave her yet. She’s lost and drowning in her anger and - 

 

“It’s okay to rely on someone else,” he says, and her eyes snap up to meet his. He looks deeply uncomfortable, but he doesn’t flinch from her gaze. “It’s not weak to need help, especially from your partner.” She wants to refute that, remembering his own grievous injury and his own stubbornness, and she sucks in a breath to tell him just that, but he cuts her off. “I learned that from you, Maka.”

 

She stares at him, gobsmacked, and she almost misses the way his soul reaches out to hers - fleeting but real and warm. He’s gone back into the kitchen before she can respond with anything approaching coherency, and Maka drops her head back onto the pillow pile and stares at the ceiling.

 

She listens to Soul moving through their shared space - grabbing the broom from where it’s tucked between the wall and the stackable washer and dryer, the muffled cursing as it almost hits him in the head like it does every single time. It’s soothing in its familiarity, and even though she still feels like her skin is too small for all the emotions roiling inside her, she doesn’t feel like she’s liable to explode at the slightest provocation either.

 

It’s not a fix, but for now, it’s enough.

 

***

 

That night, they get ready for bed side-by-side in their tiny bathroom like they’ve done for the past four days. It’s expeditious more than anything else. Maka shudders to think about using her electric toothbrush in this state, but they’ve worked out a system where Soul holds her toothbrush still and she mostly just stands there, twisting and turning her head to get all of her teeth and gums while Soul brushes his own teeth manually. 

 

She’s convinced that he’s doing it for entertainment value at this point. She can see herself in the mirror - she knows that she looks just as ridiculous as she feels. She can’t blame Soul, but she’s still going to glare at him throughout the process. They spit in unison, and she sips from the cap of mouthwash he holds up. Rinse, spit - it’s a finely tuned routine now. 

 

What isn’t routine is the way Soul pauses by her door. She knows he’s been sleeping on the couch, and she feels the extra layer of guilt like oil on her skin. 

 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” she says before he can open his mouth.

 

“Neither have you,” Soul points out.

 

“I can’t get comfortable.” She holds up her bandaged hands and flexes them gently. “Only one of us needs to be miserable. Go sleep in a real bed, Soul.”

 

He shifts. “ _ You _ don’t need to be miserable, either,” he says immediately, and she wants to dispute that, but she’s too tired to start another fight. 

 

“You’re going to sleep on the couch again, aren’t you?”

 

“Yep.”

 

It’s Maka’s turn to shift. She can’t do anything about the way she feels useless and broken, but she can do this. “Come stay in here.”

 

“What?” 

 

“If you’re not going to sleep in your bed, sleep in mine.” Soul looks like he’s stopped breathing, and she firms her jaw. Her face is burning, but she’s not going to retract her offer. “It’s as much for me as it is you,” she adds. “Maybe you can keep me from tossing and turning so much.”

 

“Maka, I couldn’t -”

 

But he’s still standing in her doorway. He hasn’t moved away, and she can feel the glimmer of his soul against hers again. “Please don’t make me ask again,” she murmurs. 

 

He slumps a little. “Okay.” He sounds almost defeated, and she wonders if she broke him, too. She hates herself a little more for the thought.

 

It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed over the years, but it’s undeniably different when it’s  _ Maka’s _ bed they’re climbing into. She gestures, and he goes, tossing back the covers and settling onto the right side of the bed. Maka stares at him for a moment, tries to wrap her brain around how he can take up so much and yet so little space, then flicks the light off with her elbow.

 

“You’re getting pretty good at that,” Soul says  _ from her bed _ , and she’s glad the darkness hides whatever it is her face is doing. 

 

“What can I say, I’m adaptable,” she deadpans, and Soul’s soft snort draws her onto the bed. She scoots in, scoots under the covers until she can feel the heat of Soul’s hip against hers. 

 

“How do you want -” She stops him before he can finish, flops down on his chest, and curls up against him. She tucks her right hand up, safe between her chest and his side - her left rests on his sternum. “Like that, then,” he says.

 

“Is this okay?” She almost wants him to say no, that it’s awful and he can’t stand to be close to her like this - she doesn’t deserve this comfort. She hasn’t earned the soft rise and fall of his chest.

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he replies, and she can hear the rumble of his voice echoing through his chest. “Go to sleep, Maka.”

 

She closes her eyes and tries to let go.

 

***

 

Maka wants to say that she gets past her rage, that she finds her zen peace of mind and finally settles into her lot as a patient, but she doesn’t. Even with Soul around, it’s quiet in the apartment and while her normal solution would be to distract herself with reading, it’s been increasingly difficult for her to lose herself in her favorite tomes. The noise in her head is persistent, and it’s too easy for her thoughts to start spiraling again. She’s been watching a lot of Netflix, interspersed with really terrible daytime television.

 

She’s trying to be more mindful of it, to keep from lashing out at Soul when it gets to be too much. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s been better. She hasn’t broken anything else, at least. They’ve developed a new routine around her couch nest - Soul curled up in one corner with his laptop and her on the other end, cozy and focused on the television. At night, they curl up together in her bed, and they don’t talk about it.

 

She’s not okay, but she feels less like she’s imposing on him, less like he’s babying her. She should try to pinpoint what changed, where the turning point was, but she’s overanalyzed every other aspect of her life throughout the years and it hasn’t helped, so she’s determined to just...let this happen. Whatever it is.

 

Her hands are starting to itch, and she knows it’s because they’re finally beginning to heal, the skin slowly regrowing, but it feels like a microcosm for her life right now. She needs to get out of the apartment, needs to do  _ something _ that isn’t change her bandages and waste away slowly on the couch, but Soul remains adamant about following Stein’s orders to rest and relax. If he’s a little too stringent about them, well. She can’t legitimately blame him after how she’s acted.

 

She finally gets a moment of reprieve in the form of a follow-up doctor’s appointment with Stein. She barely registers the way Soul puts on her jacket for the ride, hands flitting between the zipper and tugging the sleeves carefully over her bandaged hands. Soul’s being extra solicitous as he gets them both settled on the bike, but she’s so excited just to get out of the apartment and  _ maybe _ be cleared to do stuff again that it doesn’t irritate her like it might have before.

 

He follows her into Stein’s lab once they park, a silent presence by her left elbow. He resists the urge to put his hand there, to cup her elbow in support, resists the urge to tell her to temper her expectations. Instead, he follows her inside, wraps his hands around her hips and lifts her onto the exam table, and retreats before she can say anything. He sets up his watch against the wall of the lab, intent on giving her her space, on not hovering more than strictly necessary.

 

Soul looks on, mouth pulled tight and unwieldy as Stein takes her bandages off and begins to poke and prod at the tender skin of her palms. Maka tries not to think about what Soul’s expression means, tries instead to focus on the series of noises Stein makes under his breath as he examines her hands, on the way it still  _ hurts _ , but the pain is nothing compared to how it was before.

 

She stares at her skin with a sick sense of fascination. She’s been avoiding looking at them for so long - another reminder of her failure - content to let Soul deal with her hands, just like he’d dealt with every other thing she’s thrown at him, while she looked over his shoulder, eyes focused on a water stain on the bathroom wall. 

 

She doesn’t deserve him, maybe she never has, but she’s so, so glad he’s still here.

 

“Well,” Stein’s voice breaks through her thoughts, “The good news is that there’s no sign of infection - it seems like Kim’s magic really took. I’d say give it another few days and you can come back and get these stitches taken out.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really.” Stein scoots away, rolling his chair across the lab and rifles through a couple of different drawers while Soul abandons his wall to stand next to her. “ _ Ah hah _ , here we are.” He squeaks back, a small jar in one hand. “I want you to keep the bandages on if you’re going to be touching a lot of stuff - risk for infection is low, but it can’t hurt to be careful until we take out those stitches. You  _ can _ start putting this salve on at least twice a day. It’s going to make sure that skin doesn’t tighten up too much.”

 

Soul takes the jar from Stein and Maka clears her throat. “So when can I go back?”

 

“Go back where?”

 

Next to her, Soul grips the jar tightly enough that she’s a little afraid he’s going to crush it in his hands and  _ god _ wouldn’t that be just  _ perfect _ . “To Shibusen.”

 

“Thaaaat’s going to be a no,” Stein says. “There’s no way I’m sending you back when you’ve still got stitches in.”

 

“ _ You _ still have stitches in,” Maka mutters under her breath, and next to her, Soul’s grip loosens on the jar as he chokes back a laugh. She  _ knew _ it was a long shot, knew that she shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up, but there’s still bitter disappointment settling in her breast.

 

“And  _ I’m _ still the doctor.” He makes a shooing motion, brusque but not unkind in his own way. “Go on, now. I’ll see you back here in...three days and we’ll see about your stitches.” 

 

She’s quiet as they leave Stein’s lab, but it feels different than when they were last here. He can’t see souls like Maka can, but he knows his partner better than he knows anyone else, and her silence seems born more of impatience than the furious hurt from their last visit.

 

Soul wants to take Maka home immediately. He’s antsy, like the sand witch will descend from the sky in the middle of the goddamn day - in Death’s own city - and attack them while Maka is out of commission and he’d be helpless to defend her. But he also knows firsthand how being cooped up has been driving her slowly mad, and honestly, he’s been so reluctant to leave her that he’s going a little stir crazy himself. If he takes her straight home, he’s pretty sure the chance of her doing something stupid increases exponentially, especially now that she’s got a little leeway with her bandages.

 

He takes them for ice cream, instead.

 

If she knows what his game is, she doesn’t say anything, just lets Soul drive them through town. It’s the middle of the day on a Friday, and they basically have the ice cream parlor to themselves. Maka makes a big show of staring at the menu, like she’s not going to get the same thing she gets every time they come here. Still, he waits patiently while she dithers between a shake and a sundae, low-key glad that there’s not a line. She orders a waffle cone with two scoops of cookies n’ cream instead, just like he knew she would, and Soul rolls his eyes and orders the sundae because he wants it, not because he thinks that she might like to try a little bit of it.

 

They end up outside, soaking in the sunshine and strolling through the park. It almost feels normal, except for the way he has to shove down his paranoia every time a cloud passes over them, except for the way Maka’s hands are still wrapped up, and how they start to tremble the longer she holds her ice cream cone. She tries to eat it as fast as she can, but the sun’s hot, and she can’t quite beat the drips before her bandages start to soak up cookies n’ cream. Soul bites his tongue. He wants to help, wants to protect Maka, but if the last week or so has reminded him of anything, it’s that there’s only so much that he can do in the face of her overwhelming stubbornness. It’s just ice cream.

 

Soul’s getting better at picking his battles.

 

Maka gets about halfway through her cone before she makes disgruntled noise and gives up, tossing the rest of it into a trash can they pass. She looks at her sticky bandages in disgust and Soul has to stifle a laugh.

 

“Oh, shut it, you,” she mutters, but it’s fond rather than frustrated, and he feels lighter for it. “You think I can take these off lest I get cookies and or cream in my poor stitches? Or will Stein jump out and yell at me?”

 

“I think we can probably make an exception for ice cream detritus,” Soul says. “Though you may want to wash up just in case.”

 

“Yeah.” She sighs, looking up into the sky. “Let’s head home, okay?”

 

“You sure?” She looks radiant in the sunshine, and he’s enjoying the view as much as he is the way she looks more relaxed. 

 

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t want to set anything back, and I don’t trust park water - you know me better than that.” She smiles a little. “Besides, Stein said Kim’s healing worked - I may not have my stitches out yet, but I think that solidly gets me out of house-arrest, yeah?”

 

“I think we can probably arrange that.” He offers her the remainder of his sundae as they mosey back to the parking lot, and she takes the spoon gingerly, finishing off what’s left carefully and trying not to feel giddy at something as simple as holding a spoon on her own.

 

“I think i have some hand sanitizer in one of the saddle bags,” he offers once they get to the bike, as if they both don’t know that he  _ always _ keeps a bottle in there, just in case.

 

“I think it’ll be okay,” she grins, small, but real in a way her smiles haven’t been lately. The tension he’s been carrying around in his chest for the last week loosens just a little.

 

_ *** _

 

Having a concrete date for getting her stitches out gives Maka something to focus on other than the way her hands ache, the way she’s been cooped up inside for a week. Her mood doesn’t completely lift, but the difference is palpable, and it feels like they spend the three days in between visits to Stein’s layer adjusting to yet another new reality. Every time they get into a routine that works, they’re jostled out of it. Soul’s glad because it means his Meister is healing, but it’s playing hell on his equilibrium. 

 

He’s still waking up next to Maka every morning, and they still don’t talk about it, and he wonders if that’s going to change once she gets her stitches out. Not for the first time, Soul wishes he could figure out what’s going on in her head, but he’s observant enough to see the way she gets a little more animated as they get closer and closer to her second follow-up, and he’s terrified that she’s setting herself for the kind of disappointment that it’s going to be hard to bounce back from. 

 

***

 

It’s an all too familiar tableau in Stein’s lab as Maka sits on top of the metal table, Stein bent over Maka’s hands and Soul trying valiantly to distance himself, physically if not emotionally.

 

“Well,” he drawls, poking at the stitches. “I’m happy to say that there’s still no sign of infection.”

 

“So we’re good to go?” Maka asks, voice trembling with barely contained excitement.

 

Stein produces a pair of tweezers in one hand, and scissors in the other in response. The lab is silent except for the noises Maka tries to stifle as he tugs at the sutures, and the sound of Stein’s scissors. Each snip seems to ratchet up the tension in Soul’s shoulders.

 

“Hmm. Thanks once again to Kim’s intervention, there seems to be minimal scarring,” Stein says, tugging out the last stitch. 

 

“You don’t have to sound so disappointed,” Soul mutters, voice oddly bitter. Maka’s eyes dart over to where he’s leaning against the wall, gone full-on “cool pose” and she wonders if he knows he’s doing it, or if it’s just a reflex when they’re around their instructors.

 

Stein gives him a mild look, inscrutable, and tsks a little under his breath. “Regardless of my  _ personal feelings _ on the matter, you are still healing up. You should be alright to forego the bandages - unless you decide to go slicing up your flesh again for funsies, there shouldn’t be any danger of infection at this point.” 

 

Stein wheels away from the table again, coming to rest at an ancient computer. “Since you’ve got all those nice new tendons all covered in nice new skin, it’s time to start on some physical therapy! You probably haven’t noticed since you’re  _ not supposed to be using your hands _ , but your hand and grip strength might not be up to snuff anymore.”

 

He  _ click clacks _ at the keyboard before making a triumphant noise, and the sound of a dot matrix printer screeching to life fills the lab. Soul and Maka both flinch at the sound, while Stein stares placidly at the printer. It’s a small eternity before it finishes, and Stein triumphantly rips the paper off the roll, stuffing it into a file folder that’s seen better days.

 

“Ah.  _ There _ we go.” Stein squeaks his way back to the table. He doesn’t quite fling the folder at Soul, but it’s pretty close. “Make yourself useful and hang onto those.” He focuses his attention on Maka. “Now, I’m going to teach you a few exercises that will start building that strength back up again, make sure your skin doesn’t start pulling too tightly as it keeps healing up. Do you need more of that salve? Remind me and I’ll grab it before you go.”

 

“I think we’re good,” Soul mutters. 

 

“So,” Maka starts, flexing her hands experimentally. They feel different without the bandages on, and she wonders if that’s just a function of the new skin or if it’s something else entirely. She doesn’t  _ feel _ weaker, though. Just...different. “I can go back to work, then.” She makes it a statement, like if she says it convincingly enough, then Stein will just nod and agree.

 

Next to her, she can feel Soul’s whole body stiffen. She tries to get a ping on his soul or his expression, but both are locked down tight. In his hand, the folder crumples.

 

Stein snorts out a laugh. “Nice try, but still no. Not a chance.” Soul relaxes marginally at his words, and Maka clenches her hands into fists before she can stop herself. She can’t hide the wince, and Stein gives her a look comprised almost entirely of his eyebrows judging her over the rim of his glasses. 

 

“I mean, not in the field, obviously! But surely I can at least go back to Shibusen?” she tries.

 

Stein cocks his head to the side. “I don’t see any reason why that would be necessary. Soul can bring you home any paperwork that needs doing. You  _ should _ be able to hold a pen for at least a little while, but you’ll need to make sure you take time to stretch your hands or you’ll end up with little rat hands!” He holds both his hands up, curled into claws, and makes a squeaking noise.

 

Maka doesn’t find that nearly as amusing as Stein seems to. “Come on,” she wheedles. “Where’s the harm in letting me go back? Just for desk-duty, I promise.”

 

Next to her, Soul snorts and breaks his silence. “And what, you’re just going to sit behind a desk? You’re not going to try and sneak of on a mission, or do something dangerous?”

 

“What?  _ No _ . No, of course not.”

 

“Pull the other one, Maka.” 

 

She whips her head around with a glare, finally meeting his eyes, but his face remains impassive. “What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

 

“You expect either of us to believe that you’d just sit around Shibusen if something came up? If you heard someone had a lead on the witch I couldn’t kill?”

 

“That  _ we _ couldn’t kill,” she shoots back. Soul opens his mouth to respond when Stein clears his throat loudly.

 

“Perhaps this is something the two of you can work out somewhere...not in my office,” Stein suggests. “In the interim, it’s my  _ professional _ opinion that you continue to heal in the comfort of your own home.” He claps his hands together.  “ _ Now _ . Let’s get these exercises taken care of.”

 

***

 

This time, he gives in to his urge to get her in a safe place as immediately as possible, somewhere where he can watch over her. If he’d been paranoid and worried about the risks she might take once she’d gotten some leeway with her bandages, it’s nothing to how he feels now that she’s got the stitches  _ out _ , now that she’s cleared to start physical therapy, now that the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter and brighter.

 

He can’t stop thinking about the way her face had lit up thinking about going back into the academy, about the way his own heart felt like it had stuttered to a stop. Now that her bandages are off and she’s not dependant on him to do anything, he’s going to have to go back to work, back to Shibusen without her,  _ leaving her _ alone while she’s still healing. He hopes that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a train in disguise.

 

Soul expects some kind of melt-down from Maka once they get back to the apartment - expects the rage and frustration to come tumbling back out at being once again so close to healed, but still not healed enough. It never comes, though. Soul tried to shove his increasing anxiety away and sets about making them both lunch.

 

Maka sidles her way into the kitchen as he’s getting out vegetables.

 

“I was thinking stir fry,” he says.

 

“Yeah, that sounds great,” she replies, voice just a little too bright. It’s such a 180 from where they’ve been for the past week and change that Soul doesn’t know what to do. “Is there anything I can do to help now that I’m…” she trails off, wiggling her uncovered hands.

 

She watches the indecision on his face, waits for his rejection and prepares herself to keep her smile pasted on her face. 

 

“Could you do the rice?” he asks instead, and her smile shifts into something a little more natural. 

 

“Of course!”

 

She sounds so happy about it, about being  _ allowed _ to do something that Soul feels almost sick to his stomach with it. He knows he’s been so uptight, so restrictive about letting Maka do anything for herself lately, but every time he thinks about  _ relaxing _ , his fear clogs up his throat and chest and all he can see are her hands, shredded and bloody, still trying desperately to hold onto him. He hasn’t been that scared since they were young and still new to their partnership, terrified that without her, he wasn’t  _ enough _ to protect her, to fulfill their duty. 

 

He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on cutting the onions and mushrooms while she measures and pours the water and rice into their shitty, ancient rice maker. She’s safe and healing and seems to be less insistent on hurting herself, and he’s got to get his shit together. 

 

The stir fry turns out pretty damn decently, and they eat together in the living room, watching another questionable block of programming on the History Channel. Maka prides herself on her ability to real-time fact check 99% of the garbage they air, and Soul lets himself get lost in the familiar cadence of her know-it-all voice. He loves it, loves these moments together where he can forget the last week or so, where he can pretend that everything is back to “normal.”

 

He loves  _ her _ , when he pushes away the fear and the anxiety enough to admit it.

 

Together, they laze away the rest of the day between the couch and the kitchen, and when Maka has to use the bathroom, she does it on her own, and they absolutely do not talk about  _ before _ . Before they get ready to go to bed, they stand side by side in their little bathroom and Maka brushes her own teeth, switching back and forth between hands when one starts to ache. When they’re done, Soul tilts his head to the side, and Maka lets him lift her carefully onto the countertop. 

 

She hands him the jar of salve that Stein had given them, and rests her hands palm up on her thighs. Soul dips his fingers into the jar and plops a dollop of the cream into the center of her right palm the same way he’s done for the last three days, then picks up her hand and starts working the salve into her skin. 

 

She always begins their little countertop sessions by staring at the top of Soul’s head, first because it hurt too much to look at her hands, then because it felt...she felt... _ something _ when she’d look at his hands, whether he was trying to get them clean or trying to keep her new skin malleable. Her eyes can’t stay there, though. They always drift down, stuck on the way they make her own hands seem too small, on how gentle he always is, whether or not he’s tweezing schmutz out of her skin or massaging the salve into it. 

 

His fingers are firm, methodical, but now that she’s not wincing at every touch, she can’t help but focus  on how  _ good _ it feels, too. As he rubs the cream into her hands, aching from  _ maybe _ ,  _ slightly _ pushing herself a little too far, it seems like he’s rubbing away any remaining tension and the sensation travels from her palms up her arms and into her chest, and if she droops a little, neither of them say anything about it. 

 

When he’s finally done, she feels a little like a noodle and maybe slithers off the counter like one, too, if the huff of laughter Soul lets out is any indication. He hasn’t laughed a lot lately, and she misses the sound. They jostle each other to leave the bathroom, and she can tell that Soul’s still being too careful of her, but it doesn’t quite strike that same chord of irritation that it had earlier in the week. 

 

He pauses at the doorway into her room, looks back towards the bedroom he hasn’t slept in for nine days, and Maka feels her throat tighten. She watches her hand reach out, bare and red, and tugs on the hem of Soul’s shirt.

 

She watches his throat work as he swallows, but he follows her into her room again, and she doesn’t think about why. 

 

She’s on the mend now, almost free, and she’s going to start back work when Soul does. She’s good,  _ great _ , but she can still have this for a little while longer, whatever it is.

 

***

 

She’s half-expecting Soul to be gone when she wakes up in the morning, though she’s not sure why. Maka can’t remember a time when they were both sleeping well and Soul had managed to wake up before her. She doesn’t  _ need _ Soul next to her, heating up her bed, his legs tangling carelessly with hers, but in the quiet moments before he wakes up next to her, she can admit that she  _ wants _ it. 

 

It feels a little like deception, and she shuffles that away in the little file she keeps of “Reasons Maka Albarn is a Terrible Partner.” She’ll stop soon because she’s healed, she’s fixed and she can be  _ better _ than she was.

 

The first step is getting back to work. Next to her, she can feel Soul start to wake up, the slow stretch he takes every morning from his shoulders to his toes, the way he twists his hips to pop his back. He smacks his lips and she wonders the same way she has every morning, if he does it because his mouth is dry. Next is the yawn, every tooth on display and breath morning-foul. She doesn’t even mind.

 

“Morning, Soul,” she says, and he blinks his eyes open blearily.

 

“Morning, Maka.” His voice is rough, and she shutters her eyes to the sound. 

 

“Are you going in today?” She tries to keep her voice even, neutral.

 

He stretches out again, cool air slipping under the covers, and sighs. “Yeah, I figured I probably ought to since you don’t really need me anymore.” There’s something in his words that belies the light tone, but she’s too focused on the yes to pay attention to his words.

 

“It’s already 8:00,” she says, and has to bite back a smile as Soul groans.

 

“Fff _ uuu _ ck.” He slides out of bed. “Do you think anyone will care if I don’t shower?”

 

“How would anyone tell the difference,” she asks, burrowing a little further under the covers. 

 

He narrows his eyes and heads towards the bathroom. “Brat,” he says, the mixture of fond and exasperated that makes Maka think that everything is  _ normal _ again. She hears the shower start up, and lets herself doze back off for a little while.

 

“Hey, Maka,” Soul’s voice drags her up out of her nap, his hair still damp and about to drip onto her pillow. For a moment, all she can smell is their shampoo.

 

“Mm?”

 

“I’m going to head out, now.” He hesitates like he’s going to sit on the edge of the bed, but he stays hunched over her instead. “Are - is there anything I can get you before I go?”

 

“Mm, no. I don’t think so. I should be okay.”

 

“Do you want to go ahead and do your salve?”

 

“No, I can take care of myself,” she says, still half-asleep. She nearly misses the way Soul recoils from the bed - a sudden jerk back before he catches himself and straightens up slowly.

 

“Yeah, of course. I -”  He pushes his hair back and tugs down the sleeves of his jacket. “Call me if you need m - anything. Shouldn’t be a lot to do today.”

 

“Sure.” He gives her one last look before leaving her room. “Have a good day,” she adds as he’s going. He doesn’t respond, but she hears the door close a moment later and figures that he just didn’t hear her.

 

Eventually, she slips out of bed and enjoys the feeling of being truly alone. She uses the bathroom, brushes her teeth; she showers alone, no one sitting on the toilet, waiting to see if she falls; she pulls out the salve and starts diligently rubbing it into her skin. It makes her hands hurt less, but it doesn’t relax her like she thought it would.

 

She makes herself toast and if she drops the butter knife a few times, it’s probably because her hands are still a little slippery, and not because they’re trembling. And  _ if _ they are, well, that’s just part of her healing process. Once she’s eaten, she does a round of the PT stretches that Stein gave her while watching General Hospital. 

 

When it’s not  _ quite _ lunch, she goes to stand in front of the mirror they’d installed next to the front door so Soul could check his hair on the way out of the house and, incidentally, so they didn’t have to call Death from inside their tiny bathroom.

 

She exhales on the glass, quickly writes the familiar number in the fog, then snatches back her red hand, tucking it behind her back. 

 

“Why hello there,” Lord Death’s familiar face pops into view and if she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked surprised to see her.

 

“Hello, Lord Death! Maka Albarn, reporting for duty.” She keeps her smile bright and her hands hidden, and waits.

 

“Are you, now?”

 

She waits for something else, but instead it’s just her boss’s skull face staring at her. She clears her throat. “Yep! My stitches are out, and I’m ready to come back in to Shibusen. I was thinking desk duty to start with - I’ve been out long enough that I’m sure my work’s all backed up.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about that. Everyone’s been pitching in to help out. You really ought to take the extra time and make sure that you’re all healed up before you come back in.”

 

She bites back on the urge to scowl, struggling to keep her expression pleasant. “But I really feel like I’m ready  _ now _ . Sitting at home when I could be back at work seems like a waste of everyone’s time, sir.”

 

“Getting healthy is never a waste of time, Maka my dear. I’m sure Soul would agree with me, don’t you think?” She recoils from the mirror a little bit, and something undeniably satisfied flits over Lord Death’s visage. “Hm, yes. I think your Weapon would agree with me. What do you think, Soul?”

 

Maka’s heart plummets to the bottom of her stomach as Soul comes into view, his face eerily, devastatingly blank. “It’s your show, Lord Death,” he says. 

 

“Hmm.” Lord Death taps one white glove against his skull. “Looks like it’s doctor’s orders, then! No coming back until you’re totally cleared!” He turns to Soul. “And half-days for you, I think, my scythe friend.” He waves at Maka. “Focus on getting better! I can’t wait to have my best scythe-meister back once she’s  _ completely healthy _ . Toodles!”

 

The mirror goes dark before she can respond, and a second later, she’s staring at her reflection, green eyes wide in a pale face. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It’s fine. This is fine. Death might be the literal boss of her, but there’s no reason for her to be so worked up about Soul’s reaction. She didn’t do anything wrong - she just wanted to do her job. That’s a  _ good _ thing, she reminds herself.

 

_ Some _ people might say that this is just another sign that she’s a workaholic, that it’s idiotic for her to try and go back so soon, but Maka knows that she’s just dedicated, passionate. Unfortunately, no one else seems to think that’s a good thing right now, and it’s really starting to chap her ass.

 

She’s  _ fine _ , and the sooner everyone realizes it too, the better off everyone will be. 

 

***

 

She’s napping on the couch when Soul comes home, mouth slack in sleep, and for a moment, all his frustration is forgotten. It comes roaring back when she blinks her eyes open and stares directly at him. He doesn’t miss the flash of guilt on her face before she smiles at him.

 

“Welcome back, Soul.”

 

For a long moment, he just stares at her. He thought he was all right, that he had his emotions under control, but his Meister sits up on the couch and blinks at him, and he wants to either shake her or start crying, he’s not sure which.

 

“What the hell was that,” he says, and it’s like the words are coming out of someone else’s mouth. He feels numb.

 

“What was what?”

 

“Maka.” Soul feels cold, almost. “I was right there. Please don’t bullshit me.”

 

She tilts her chin up the way he loves and dreads in equal measure. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

 

“Then why did you look like you’d seen a ghost when Lord Death called me over?”

 

“I was surprised,” she says loftily. “What were you even  _ doing _ there?” It’s sharp and accusatory, and Soul scowls.

 

“He called me in there to debrief about the sand witch, and our course of action moving forward. I had just finished telling him how well you were doing when you called to try and get past Stein’s medical orders just to get back to work.” He can feel his anger and voice rising, and he tries to temper them both to something more manageable.

 

“It’s not like I wanted to go in the  _ field _ ,” she says, and for some reason, that’s what does him in.

 

“If it was ‘just the field,’ then how come you didn’t tell me? How come you waited until I left the house, until you clearly thought I was out of your hair before trying to go  _ behind my back _ , huh?”

 

She stands. “So what if I did? You’re not my  _ boss _ , Soul. You’ve been treating me like glass since I got hurt. I’m not broken. I’m  _ better _ , I can work, I can pull my own weight! 

 

“I’m your  _ partner _ ,” he says and it feels like his chest is ripping open all over again. “I was so fucking scared, Maka. I close my eyes, and I see you trying to fight when you can’t stand, when you can’t hold me because your blood is making you lose your grip.”

 

She sucks in a breath. “I - I’m sorry, Soul.” She knows what that feels like, but - “I  _ need _ to pull my own weight again. I have to - I let you down out there...I let you down  _ again _ , and if I don’t keep trying, it’s going to keep happening. I can’t be the reason you get hurt again.”

 

“Maka, you - you never let me down. You’re my Meister, you’re my partner. We keep each  _ other _ safe, and you can’t do that if you’re still healing, and I’d never forgive  _ myself _ if you went out before you were ready.  _ That’s _ what will hurt me. That’s the only way you could let me down.”

 

“What if you’re better off without me?” The words are so soft he almost doesn’t hear them, but they make his heart stop all the same. “I’m...nothing if I’m not a Meister. I kept looking at my hands, ruined and useless and - if I can’t do this, what am I, Soul? What’s the point?”

 

“You’re Maka Albarn,” he says, and he’s still angry,  _ fuck _ he’s not sure he’ll ever not be angry - but it’s at the situation, at all the poison Maka’s been bottling up in her brain, at the knowledge that he’s not been doing much better with his own insecurities. He reaches towards her, but he can’t - he needs her to take that step. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met - you terrify me with how much you know about everything, and you’re funny and witty. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever known, unless you have to be kind to yourself, and then you’re kind of the worst, actually.” 

 

For a long moment, she just stares at him. But slowly, she steps forward, and he takes her hands, carefully but firmly unclenching her fingers. “If you’re not a Meister, if you’re not  _ my _ Meister, then I’m not a Deathscythe, but I’m still your partner.”  _ I still love you _ , he wants to say, but no...it’s not quite the time for that, he thinks. 

 

“You  _ should _ find a new Meister,” she says, stepping forward. “One who isn’t going to get you killed because she’s so stubborn.”

 

He wraps his arms around her gently, and she leans into it. For once, it feels like a benediction rather than a concession to her weakness. “Maybe you should get a new Weapon - one who isn’t so scared for you all the time, one who isn’t just as stubborn as you are.”

 

They breathe each other in for a while. Soul feels wrung out emotionally, like he could sleep for a week, but his Meister is still letting him hug her.

 

“I think…” she finally says, “I’m too selfish to let you go.”

 

He exhales a little shakily. “That’s good. Me too.”

 

“I just want to be okay,” she mumbles against his chest. 

 

“You are okay. And you’ll be healthy soon, too.”

 

He can’t see souls the way that she can, but somehow it’s never stopped him from being about to understand her heart. Her hands still hurt, worse now that she’s been pushing herself so hard, but for the first time since this fucking mess started, she feels whole. Soul squeezes her, his soul reaching for hers. 

 

She reaches back.


End file.
